Being Taught to Hate Myself

When my “well-meaning” first-grade teacher helped lay the foundations for my eating disorder

First grade is a pretty big deal when you are a kid. For me, it meant going to school every day, instead of every other day, but it also meant a new teacher. It also was the first time I came to understand that I had a weight problem. I am not quite sure at what point in the year my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Robertson took it upon herself to start a program for managing my weight. I remember very clearly the first time she led me to the nurse’s room where there was a scale, a bench and no actual nurse. She informed me that I was going to begin weighing in every Monday with her to keep track of my weight. No one else in the class was selected for this weekly weigh-in, so I concluded I must be the fattest and ugliest person in my entire class. 

During lunch period Mrs. Robertson would monitor what I was eating. She shot me the dirtiest of looks over the thick frames of her glasses whenever I ate something she didn’t approve of. I would be so excited to dive into my lunch box at the noon-hour break. I never knew what I was going to find and it could be anything from a peanut butter sandwich to leftover pizza. If it wasn’t fruits and vegetables though, Mrs. Robertson’s shaming eyes were there to tell me I was doing something wrong. 

In my elementary school, you could buy juice, potato chips, or milk at lunch if your parents sent money. I didn’t get treats like this every day but my mom would send money for chips now and then in a little change purse. I felt like a proper adult when that little change purse came with me to school. Mrs. Robertson would take the whole class’ orders.  This was the sum entirety of the input I was able to have over what I was eating for my lunch, picking the flavour of potato chips I would eat, always dill pickle in case you were wondering. She would go through making her list and when it was my turn if I said chips she would give me the look of disappointment. I felt so ashamed of myself and my body in those moments. 

Slowly the shame stare wore me down. I was confused why other kids could have potato chips but not me. That’s the thing about being six years old, isn’t it? Adults are right, and so I must be the problem. After adjusting my self-esteem and self-worth accordingly I came to understand the real lesson Mrs. Robertson taught me. My value and worth are measured in pounds.

(Mrs. Robertson wasn’t really her name)